


Thine Own Self

by entanglednow



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Because No One Likes A Paradox, Bonus Science, Flirting With Your Past Self, Garden of Eden, I Don't Even Know, Kink Meme, M/M, Pining In Stereo, Plot What Plot, Selfcest, Sex, Time Travel, Wings, all of the sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-02
Updated: 2019-12-02
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:53:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21645553
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/entanglednow/pseuds/entanglednow
Summary: In which Crowley goes back to the Garden of Eden to retrieve an apple, and ends up spending some quality time with his younger self.
Relationships: Crowley/Crawly (Good Omens)
Comments: 133
Kudos: 697
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme





	Thine Own Self

**Author's Note:**

> When you find a prompt on the kink meme that looks like fun, and then it ends up being 9000 words for no good reason. I don't even know any more.

~

"Get an original apple from Eden, they said, like it's that bloody easy." Crowley's using a hastily stacked pile of rocks to give himself a little extra height, fingertips just about curling round a low branch and easing it down in a gentle curve. "Do they know how much fucking trouble I could get into coming back here?" 

He can't use any of his powers while inside, or shift his form, because he doesn't belong here, and any non-human would feel him a mile away. There are still two very familiar non-humans drifting around the garden, but once they leave it's going to be shut for good. So this is his only chance.

"Creating a second bloody timeline off the original by crossing into non-linear space." One last mission for Hell, guaranteed freedom and protection for the both of them. "Just go collect us an apple, Crowley, that's all you have to do, Crowley. Just go in and snatch one off the tree, quick bit of blasphemous bloody scrumping." He pulls the branch down a touch harder, listens to it creak gently, the bright red shine of an apple just about within reach. 

"What are you doing?" The voice is his, but Crowley isn't the one who said it.

"Fuck -" The branch he's been steadily bending down towards himself leaves his fingers abruptly, jarring his entire arm and showering him with leaves, and several glossy apples.

He'd been so busy trying to avoid getting Aziraphale's attention, that he'd all but forgotten about himself. His younger self. Or, not really any more he supposes, since the timeline split the moment he came back and added a variable that wasn't here originally. So it's not really him but a new version of him forty two minutes removed, with a slightly shifted quantum wavelength. Which, he has to admit, is a fantastically clever piece of work that Crowley has to give Her credit for. Since a universe without self-protective measures like that is going to tear itself apart at the first hint of a paradox.

It does tend to take all the fun out of time travel movies for him though.

Crowley doesn't say anything for a few long seconds - which is a fair chunk of time for ethereal and occult beings - while he tries to decide the best way to handle this unexpected situation. Though that gives his younger self more than enough time to wander closer. 

"Oh," Crawly says, once he gets a good look at him. Because it's hard not to recognise another version of yourself, when you're a writhing tangle of occult energies, demonic vibrations and serpentine biology. A different hairdo and some glasses just aren't going to cut it. "I don't think you're supposed to be here." There's a friendliness to the words, as if his unexpected appearance is the most interesting thing that's happened to Crawly today.

Satan, he looks ridiculously young. With his awkward, swaying gait, and untidily folded wings. Not to mention the robe, Crowley remembers wrapping himself in the first thing he could think of, once he realised that clothes were the done thing. He'd picked something in the same shade as his wings, materials tatty and ill-matched, absolutely no idea what to do with the hair on this body, eyes fully on display. He's strangely softer than Crowley remembers being too, the world hadn't given him all his edges yet, hadn't yet planed anything sharp. No humanity yet to grind away at his curiosity. Everything was new, a world full of new and interesting things to fascinate, delight and horrify him. Trying so hard to look as if he knew what he was doing, while inside he was still desperately trying to stitch his new pieces together.

But Crowley can be new. He can be fascinating.

"Well, I was in the area, feeling a bit nostalgic," he says, casually brushing bits of bark off his jacket. "Thought I'd stop in for a quick temptation, and a bit of fruit, not really important."

"I've met four people in the garden already, it's busy here." Crawly doesn't seem to mind that one of them is just an older version of himself. He always did like the unexpected, Crowley has to give himself that.

"Wait til they invent train stations," he mutters, and steps down off his rocky perch, eyeing the ground covering of ripe fruit, before heading for his double.

Crawly eyes his swagger with interest, until he's close enough that he can reach up and touch his glasses, curious and unafraid, and Crowley lets him, even lets him draw them from his face. The younger version of him makes a noise that's impressed and intrigued, opening them and shutting them, before lifting them to look through, pupils expanding and contracting in interest

"Oh, that's terribly clever," he decides at last, smiling widely. "Did you make these?"

He finds he's not at all offended at Crawly's assumption that he wouldn't mind the invasion of personal space. Or the frank investigation of his hair and clothes.

"Nope, the humans did, eh, I probably shouldn't tell you too much, just gets confusing." Crowley takes his glasses back, slips them into his jacket pocket. There's no point when the only person to look at has the same eyes as him. More honest at the moment, he supposes, since Crawly hasn't experienced people staring at him yet, noticing and commenting on the stark differences, treating him like he's something corrupted and wrong.

"Including what you're doing here?" Crawly asks, lifting curious eyebrows, but Crowley doubts he expects an answer, not an honest one at least. 

"You wouldn't tell me, would you?" Crowley feels compelled to point out. Because it doesn't do to give too much away, especially when you're sitting on six thousand years of secrets. "Obviously." 

That makes Crawly smile as well, as if he's pleased to discover something about his future self. And it's always nice not to be a disappointment, Crowley doesn't get enough of that.

"That's a fair point," Crawly allows. "Still, who would I tell, it's been fairly empty here, since Adam and Eve got kicked out." Crawly looks off towards the wall, where they had indeed been shooed off into the desert. He's still young enough to think it's his fault, he doesn't understand yet that he's just a particularly stubborn puzzle piece, in a picture that was stamped out long ago.

Crowley remembers this day though, all the days really, if pressed hard enough. He'd left not long after this, which means Crawly should be just about ready to abandon the garden too.

His hair is longer than Crowley remembers having it for centuries, a riot of barely managed curls that he hadn't quite understood how to miracle right, and of course combs hadn't been invented yet. Still he can't resist lifting a hand, letting one of those spirals coil round his finger, because it's been forever since he'd seen his hair in its raw original form.

"Huh, I remember this, didn't have the first clue what to do with hair to start with, did we?" He lets go of the curl, watches it bounce upwards, knuckles dragging briefly on the warmth of his younger self's cheek. 

Crawly surprises him by flushing at the contact. It shouldn't be a surprise really though, since this body is almost brand new, with all the sensitivity and want that brings with it. No one has touched it yet, not even Crawly himself, and it'll be a thousand years before he has sex for the first time. 

Which - Crowley pulls a face - he remembers that well enough. Crawly's going to have a pretty bloody awful first time, truth be told. With a man who's selfish, impatient, and far too aggressive, though Crowley hadn't known any better at the time. Crawly won't know any better either. Which Crowley is suddenly unreasonably angry about.

Unless - he has a sudden curious thought, can't help it really, turns it over in his head with a curious noise, because there's nothing like a spot of time travel to make you consider ideas that are a mite transgressive. But, oh, he would have found the thought of it more than intriguing, which means Crawly will as well.

"You wouldn't tell on me, would you?" Crowley lets his voice go low and smoky, all feathers and suggestion. And he doesn't feel a lick of shame at using his own wiles on his past self. He'll have to learn it all eventually, if anything this will be a good example for him, get a leg up on the competition, before humans start getting squirted out all over the place and it becomes a free for all. Crowley's been spotting people's vulnerable places for millennia. But it's not so much spotting right now as it is quietly admitting to them. "You seem like a good sort."

"I do?" Crawly asks, surprised, his eyes flick from Crowley's eyes to his mouth and back again. He hasn't learned how to hide how intrigued he is by things yet, when he wants things, wants to touch things, investigate new possibilities. Honestly, it's amazing Aziraphale never noticed. The angel must have been even more oblivious than he remembers.

"Yeah, look at you, couldn't have asked for a finer demon to show me around, eh? I bet you'd be fantastic company, being me and all." Crowley reaches out, touches Crawly's slender arm, fingers sliding down to the soft warmth of his bare wrist, until he can drag his fingertips along the back of Crawly's hand, cup his fingers gently. They curl slowly under the motion, stretching curiously against the hold, but not trying to break it.

Crawly goes very still, a sudden cessation of movement, eyes widening slowly. There, that's the moment that he feels the warm curl of interest, of invitation, he can't be a demon and not feel that. And if he'd been human he'd be blinking in shocked surprise. But Crowley hadn't really been designed that way.

"Tree seems thematically appropriate, doesn't it?" Crowley mutters, mostly to himself. He moves forward, before he can ask himself whether he's sure this is a good idea, takes a step, finds a perfect model of his own jaw with his lifted hand, and then leans in slowly and fits their mouths together

Is it against the rules to kiss yourself? Probably, though Crowley has made something of a habit of bending the rules to suit his needs, so why the Hell not? Who's going to tell if a secret is between you and yourself after all. 

Crawly's mouth is slightly warmer than his, and he's obviously confused by the sudden pressure, but definitely interested. He always did love new things, new concepts, new sensations. Crawly opens slowly, at Crowley's gentle urging, and they're kissing properly, though Crawly's movements are overeager, and a little clumsy. The familiarity of his own mouth is less strange than the faint taste of his own essence, sharp on his tongue, a bitterness that fizzes in a way that's not unpleasant. Crawly seems to like it too, if his startled moan is anything to go by. It's loud and honest, since no one had ever told him it shouldn't be.

When Crowley sways back out of the kiss he doesn't have to pretend to look pleased. Who would have thought - it turns out that kissing yourself is a strangely compelling experience. 

Crawly swallows, awkwardly. That's probably another new sensation he hasn't had any use for yet, that rolling contraction that he hasn't had a chance to really try. The pleasure of pulling something into your throat and squeezing it. Though it's impossible to miss the way the other him shifts just a touch closer, as if he's trying to follow Crowley instinctively. Crowley remembers feeling like that, he'd found touch so new and exquisite at the beginning, before he learned that it could hurt too.

"I've seen them doing that," Crawly says quietly. "Adam and Eve."

"Yeah, it catches on," Crowley tells him. Which as understatements go is kind of a big one. 

"I can see why. It always looked messy, but it's interesting, strangely visceral, wet." Crawly's still looking at him, can't seem to look away. It's been years since Crowley's eyes were that exposed, since he let them be that exposed. No whites to be seen, it's all inhuman up there, all snake. Something about seeing that outside in the fresh air, where they're exposed, unnerves him, even though there's no one to hide from yet. The eyes are only for him, liquid and honest.

"It's the body," Crowley explains. "Yours is still pretty new, easily pleased, it likes to be touched. You'll like that about it too, trust me."

"I've seen them doing other things as well," Crawly offers, a tentative sort of question to the words. "In the garden, under the trees."

Crowley can't help a snort at that. He probably thinks he's being subtle, and that's kind of adorable - not that anyone will ever find out that he called himself adorable in any capacity. But the way Crawly moves, the way he fidgets, like he wants to touch him some more, but isn't sure if it's appropriate, or if he's allowed. He's still working through both the need to recklessly make his own decisions and damn the consequences, and the painful memory of being thrown from Heaven for a first offence.

"Oh yeah, what sort of things?" Because Crowley wants to see what he had in the way of persuasion skills back then. His memory wants to say none, but he's finding the strangely open, innocent attempt to coax more in the way of attention to be surprisingly enticing. The idea of this inexperienced version of himself fumbling his way through an attempt at seduction. Crowley absolutely needs to see that.

"Sexual reproduction," Crawly says, as if he'd heard the words somewhere and thought they sounded interesting. "They combine, physically. They seemed to like it a lot, they did it all the time."

They had done it all the time, he remembers watching them, remembers how bewildering it had been from his perspective. The way it had looked like nothing but rolling around on the ground until they jammed themselves together, only to part later with kisses or laughter. He'd understood they enjoyed it, and it was designed to produce more versions of them. He'd thought at the time that it looked like a lot of work, and a bit silly, if he was being honest. The sort of thing that probably wasn't for him. 

"Do you want to try it?" Crowley asks him. Because this Crawly's first time doesn't have to be grubby and unpleasant, and ultimately disappointing enough to stop him trying again for four centuries. Crowley can do significantly better than that. He knows what he likes better than anyone. It'd be the kind thing to do, Aziraphale would like that, he'd approve, surely, and no one would ever know he'd done it. He's already accepted that he's not going to have a problem with it, from either side of the timeline, and they're both occult beings, whose corporations aren't designed to reproduce. Crawly's attractive enough, long and sleek and responsive in a way that he thinks would be satisfying to play with. There's no reason he shouldn't take the plunge...so to speak. "I wouldn't be averse to showing you the ropes, if you wanted."

"Really, won't that be a strange thing to do?" Convince me otherwise, Crawly's voice says, as if he's enjoying this flirtatious spiral towards something new and interesting. Which makes Crowley smile and shake his head.

"Nah, occult beings aren't we. Spending time with yourself in a spontaneously generated alternate timeline, that's basically a Tuesday isn't it?" 

"What's a Tuesday?" Crawly asks curiously. His expression is curious and open, ready to believe anything that he's told. He's strangely familiar like this, trusting and soft in a way that tugs at something in Crowley. The fact that he's so close and touchable suddenly feels like a gift.

"Oh, you'll love it, days of the week, big fan you," Crowley says, far too amused. Because he thinks this version of him would like a lot of things, and he suddenly doesn't want to disappoint him, doesn't want to spill all the truths he had to learn the hard way. There'd be plenty of time for that later. "So what do you say, want to play Adam and Eve?"

Crawly seems to find that amusing, mouth stretching in the sort of pleased smile that Crowley had stopped giving thousands of years ago, and he steps close with a noise of enthusiastic agreement. Even though he clearly has no idea what he's in for. Which is sort of lovely too. Six thousand years is turning out to make for a number of significant differences.

Crowley gives the robes that his double's wearing a faint tug, finds the delicate grubbiness of Crawly's bare feet, and the pale length of his shins.

"Would you like me naked?" Crawly asks, clearly willing, if not yet experienced enough to know exactly what's expected of him. "They were always naked when they coupled. I can -" he lifts a hand, seemingly to strip himself via occult powers.

Crowley reaches out and slips his own hand around it, a touch of cool, bony fingers with smooth, smooth skin that the world hasn't dirtied up yet.

"Aw, no, come on, let me unwrap you, you're like a present." He drops the hand and catches Crawly's waist instead, where he's thin under fabric. He pulls him closer and gathers up the dark robe, starts to slide it up Crawly's body. "Wings away, or we're going to have some metaphysics meets fabric difficulties here."

Crawly obediently folds his wings away, and lets Crowley slide the material up his body, exposing skin that Crowley knows far too well, and long limbs that are not quite as familiar, pieces that had taken him longer to get right, limbs a fraction too long, curves and angles still working out how to be perfectly human, too many small bones. Differences that are oddly thrilling, a reminder of what his body had been, before he pulled and pushed it into something more acceptable. And then Crawly's dark red curls are falling around his bare shoulders. And Crowley's willing to change his mind, the curls are working for him, the curls make him look touchable. 

He drops the robe in the grass, then catches Crawly by his bare waist again, enjoying the slippery-soft feel of him, he looks him over with a sound of appreciation.

"There we go, oh that's lovely, forgot what I looked like when I was all new." He doesn't miss the way Crawly sways into him at the compliment, hands tentative on his still clothed waist. The way his fingertips dig in, more than a little greedy. 

"Can I do you, I want to undress you, do you want me to?" He doesn't seem to realise how he sounds, all delight and eagerness to please. Crowley would feel embarrassed if he hadn't survived it all already, learned not to be so obvious.

"How are you with buttons and zips?" Crowley asks. "It's a haberdashery nightmare for you I'll bet." But then he feels bad at Crawly's poorly hidden look of disappointment. "Alright, alright, fine. I'll undo everything and you can play tug of war with it."

Crawly's right, it turns out, he does enjoy it, sleeves especially. He's not the only one, because the quiet but intent way Crawly investigates the naked planes of Crowley's chest, stomach and hips, has him hard before his trousers are pushed down his thighs. His clothes end up in a small pile in the grass, only a couple of the seams popped, and it turns out the younger version of him is shamefully easy to distract, and brazen enough to act on his newfound desires. His hands spread on Crowley's shoulders and chest, with a fascinated sort of delight, thumbs drifting curiously over his nipples and then raising widened eyes at the resulting shiver. Crowley's finding it hard to complain, especially when those fingers drop to touch his dick, a soft drag against the underside that's familiar enough that he jolts into the touch.

"Ah, you can touch harder than that, if you want," Crowley tells him, on a sound of appreciation. "I won't break." He doesn't actually mind a bit of breaking, but Crawly doesn't need to know that yet.

"I've never touched anyone else's body before," Crawly admits, as if Crowley hadn't known that. "You feel very nice under my fingers." It's such an innocent compliment, and surprisingly affecting for it.

He'd probably feel even nicer if Crawly had made an effort of his own. He's utterly flat downstairs.

"Satan, Look at you, smooth as anything, still I like to think I'm slinky enough to pull it off."

Crawly hums surprised pleasure when Crowley cups his hand over the smooth nakedness at his crotch. And he's shifting ever so slightly into Crowley's touch, clearly enjoying the sensation of fingers against skin. Which makes Crowley laugh, because he hasn't seen anything yet.

"You want to make me something to work with?" he says gently.

Crawly looks down, seems to make a decision, and Crowley's hand is suddenly stroking the delicate-soft skin of Crawly's cock, fingers cupping the testicles beneath them. He's surprised for a moment that Crawly saw fit to make the same as him, rather than its opposite. It fills in his hand, soft becoming hard, slipping easily into the grasp of his fingers. Which seems too much like an invitation not to indulge for a second.

Maybe he wanted them to match, which Crowley is weirdly touched by. There's a slow, surprised breath, that shakes out just as quickly when Crowley squeezes pointedly, which provokes a different, far more intent shift of hips.

"Yeah, that's a bit better isn't it?"

Crowley coaxes him down into the grass, which is still warm from the sun, smelling like nothing Crowley has ever found since. He lets his younger self press against him from chest to toes with a hum of delight, and he's eager enough to kiss him without prompting, rolling his body helplessly into Crowley's and giving sharp little gasps of pleasure, until there are tacky wet patches on Crowley's hip and stomach. Crowley knows his younger self is enjoying himself, because he makes an amusingly familiar noise of disgruntled complaint when Crowley rolls them over, arches up and away from his mouth.

"No, trust me, you'll like this," Crowley says. Which stills Crawly's tugging fingers, willing to bow to Crowley's experience. It's still a bit unsettling, how easily Crawly bends, how happy he is to let Crowley take the lead. He has to remind himself that it's all new for him. That every sliding touch is the first time, the first experience, he has effectively made himself Crawly's first lover. Which, he concedes makes him responsible for how this goes. Old and jaded as his own experiences have made him, Crawly deserves a first time that's as good as Crowley can make it, deserves to be treated like someone worthy of his full attention. And maybe that's not just about his younger self...maybe.

He slides down, hands curving at Crawly's chest, feeling the roll of a few too many ribs under skin. His mouth opens around a nipple and he drags his tongue over it, circles it slowly, and the sharply drawn inhale from Crawly makes a thrum of satisfaction go all the way through him. He does it again, and again.

"Ah." Crawly's spine bends, a movement that pushes his chest against Crowley's mouth, and makes his thighs catch hard on Crowley's bare hips. It's instinctive, that rolling squeeze, and surprisingly arousing from the other side for a change.

"Told you you'd like it," Crowley says against the skin, almost smug. He lets his teeth dig in just a fraction, which gets him a grunt and the push of uncertain fingers into his hair. When Crowley doesn't complain about the touch Crawly threads them carefully through his much shorter strands, giving soft sighs of interest at the way they run through his fingers. Another dig of teeth gets him a gentle tug, and when Crowley closes his mouth and sucks, Crawly's fingers clench and he moans through it beautifully.

Crawly hasn't learned to hide any of his reactions, or to quiet them. He hasn't learned how to use any of this, or how it can be used against you. He's still just feeling, and enjoying, and honestly maybe it's nice to be able to show him how this is supposed to go. Without any expectation, or grand purpose for Hell, no grubby temptations just exploration and pleasure.

It's impossible to pretend Crowley doesn't want him too, that this isn't affecting him as well, the way he's sliding and shifting between his double's legs. He tilts his head up, kisses the centre of Crawly's chest. 

"Hey, I can't use my powers without being spotted, make my fingers slippery but not sticky."

Crawly frowns confusion down at him. "Why?"

"Because I'm going to finger your arse open, and it helps," Crowley tells him.

Crawly looks intrigued, and after a moment he lifts a hand and presses it against Crowley's, leaving all of his fingers slick-wet. A line of it runs down his palm, it smells of fruit, and Crowley has to wonder what Crawly was thinking about.

"Good job, spread your legs a little, perfect." He tugs a thigh to the side, lets the other drape over his folded knee, which makes it easy to find the clench of Crawly's hole. He draws his fingers around and then over it, slow rubs with his slick fingers, to get him used to the idea before he nudges inside. Crawly is very tight around that first push, which is unsurprising considering there's technically no use for this part when you're an immortal being who doesn't have to eat.

"Relax a bit more for me."

Crawly shifts his thighs open further, frowns as if he's considering how his body works, but then Crowley's finger is moving a little easier, enough that he can work a second in. Which gets him a little huff of breath. and a long shiver at the new and unexpected stretch. But there's still that quiet trust in his limbs, they're still relaxed, fingers continuing to drift gently back and forth on Crowley's bare shoulders, like he's enjoying the sensation of someone else's skin.

It's been so fucking long since Crowley had the luxury of being that trusting, of accepting things without question, even when they felt good, especially when they felt good. He's a demon after all. But if you can't trust yourself then who?

"I think I like that," Crawly decides, thigh gently moving under the slow push and draw of Crowley's fingers. It's said in a quiet, grateful, almost tender sort of voice and Crowley's not sure what to do with it, so he stretches up and kisses him instead, pushes his mouth open and slides his tongue inside, kisses his younger self until there are fingers in his hair and a tongue tentatively moving against his own.

When he shifts back down to Crawly's chest and opens his mouth over a nipple again, he digs his teeth in just a touch harder, Crawly keens and pushes back. He's already making short, breathy noises over Crowley's head, which he's never had the opportunity to hear from this angle, but he knows they're good noises. He slides another finger in, and finds the way Crawly's thighs spread and push back to be something of a statement on how much of a slut he can be. Which he's not going to lie, is really fucking doing it for him. Being aroused by his own wanton, shameless greed is a thing, for sure.

He takes his mouth off Crawly's chest, leaving the skin around his nipple red and wet, the faint imprint of sharp teeth visible - and he doesn't miss the huff of disappointment.

"Are you ready?" Crowley asks him. "Because I'm going to put my dick in you now, and it might be a bit uncomfortable to start with."

Crawly gives a quiet hum of interest at the idea of more, and tilts his hips. Crowley can't help but think he's copying something he'd seen Eve do. Which he probably shouldn't be so entertained by. 

"Yeah, we've got a bit of a different angle going on here, hang on." Crowley grabs Crawly's neglected robe, and his own jacket, bunches them up and shoves them under Crawly's back until his hips are raised a bit more. Then he spreads his long thighs again and slips between them, positioning himself, before slowly pushing in where he's made him wet and open.

Crawly stretches around him with a catching moan of surprise, cracked little notes of pain and pleasure threaded through it. Though he doesn't resist it, doesn't make a single noise of protest, fingers curling and digging lines in the grass beneath him. Crowley watches it happen, watches himself stretch Crawly open and slide in, in one long movement, and it's hotter than it has any business being, quite frankly, considering he's basically watching his own body take his own dick. But he's still fascinated by the way Crawly's stomach pulls in, the way his thighs flex and tremble under his hands, taking it all with unsteady, shaky breaths. Is this what he was like at the beginning? Demons aren't supposed to be this trusting, this willing to be vulnerable, even with other versions of themselves.

But it's far too good to stop, too unexpectedly arousing. Even though this isn't anything even close to the sort of trouble he imagined he'd be getting into by going back in time. No, this is so much better.

Crowley pauses, once he's seated all the way inside, feeling the clenching heat of him, until Crawly gives a murmur of impatience and carefully shifts underneath him. Crowley has to wonder when he lost that bossy streak, or if it's new, something he's prodded to life by being here and touching himself like this. He breathes a laugh at the thought, draws out and slides back in with a hissing moan, then starts slow, careful thrusts that leave Crawly's thighs swaying gently under the burn of it, though his eyes are half shut in pleasure, spine stretching to feel the ache when Crowley bottoms out.

Crawly feels incredible under him, and he has no idea if it's the familiarity of his essence, or the vaguely transgressive nature of the whole thing, or just a sweet, narcissistic sense of delight at being balls deep inside this wide-eyed, easy version of himself.

Crawly's fingers, still muddy at the tips, lift and catch tight on Crowley's wrist, where it's holding his raised knee to get deeper, they dig and squeeze on every drive into his body.

"Knew you'd enjoy this." Crowley can't help sounding smug under the certainty. "Just like I do." There's no point pretending he isn't enjoying it as well, and he wants Crawly to know as much. He wants him to know that he feels amazing around him, and underneath him, opening easily when Crawly spreads his thighs to get deeper still. Until Crowley is pressed tight between his own slim legs, pushing in where Crawly's hole is flushed red and slickly wet. Crowley's hand slides up his thigh and curves in, thumb rubbing at the stretched rim, watching the sliding push of his own cock, and he can't help a slow, greedy pull just to see it open.

He wants - he wants so many things. But at the moment he wants to make Crawly feel _everything_ , he wants him to have this where he never did. To show him from the very beginning how good this can be, so he doesn't have to learn it nearly two thousands years from now, when he finally chooses someone who doesn't just _use_ him. He draws his younger self up out of the grass, with an arm around his back and thighs, then sinks back on his knees and pulls a confused Crawly into his lap.

"Come on, I know damn well what those hips can do, show me what you want."

Crawly groans at the new angle, the full orange of his eyes gone almost gold. Crowley wraps hands around his waist and shows him, eases him up and then draws him down slowly. Crawly's arms loop round his neck, hold him as his spine curves and shifts, thighs squeezing. His mouth is open just a touch and Crowley can see the sliding flick of his tongue, no longer human. Crowley likes to fuck this way, he likes the way it feels, likes the control and the flexing motion. It's fluid and easy and he knows Crawly will like it too.

"Oh, I want you to do that again -" Crawly shudders, as he twists and pushes down. "Will you -"

"Show me," Crowley demands, and Crawly is still young and eager enough for new experiences, that he lays his thin hands on Crowley's shoulders and attempts to do as he's told. He lifts himself and then cautiously sinks onto Crowley's cock, with a little choke of surprised appreciation, he does it again, and again, before his nails dig in and his hips are moving in a quick, greedy rhythm. He always was a fast learner.

Not that Crowley is going to complain, because the way Crawly's body is sliding through his hands on every flexing roll is just about perfect. 

Crawly's sharp teeth dig in his lower lip, as he claws gently at Crowley's shoulders, and his pupils have expanded all the way, a low hissing breath escaping on every shove down. Crowley has never seen himself from this angle, never seen how hungry he looks, how desperate, and he doesn't know what to do with how that makes him feel. 

"There you go," Crowley says in hot satisfaction, every word punching out of his throat. "I knew you'd fucking love this." He licks a hand and threads it between them, wraps it round Crawly's cock and works him slow and easy. The flushed head is sticky-wet on every push through tight fingers.

The pace falls apart quickly, Crawly's not used to this, it's all too new, too much. But it's also clear that he's not sure what he's chasing, a thread of stuttering uncertainty making him shake and whine in his throat. Crowley draws him closer, pushes his free hand into those long curls of hair, kisses his throat and his gasping mouth. He moves his hand faster, letting his thumb slip-slide over the head, and Crawly is shuddering on every push down.

"It's ok, it's good, it's so good, let it happen."

Crawly's pace stutters, falls into a series of hard desperate shoves, until he grinds to a stop and gives a shaken, stunned noise of pleasure, comes abruptly across Crowley's stomach and chest, there's even a wet lash across the bottom of his throat. The great expanse of Crawly's wings opens out behind him with a snap, arcing upwards in bliss, and knocking a dozen apples to the ground. And the quiet of the garden is filled with a series of shameless, delighted moans.

Crowley's fingers grip at his waist and thigh, and he makes a deeply satisfied sound, at seeing himself, thousands of years removed, utterly gone with pleasure for the very first time.

"There we go," he tells him, wondering if it's at all appropriate to feel so proud, or to be so aroused.

Crawly's eyes refocus on him, body sinking as his thighs relax. He's trembling and gasping, and he looks overwhelmed and so beautifully wrecked. He gives the semen painted across Crowley's skin a confused look. As if he doesn't know whether to apologise or not. Crowley raises a hand and draws a tumble of curls out of his face.

"Yeah, it does that," he says, slightly breathless himself. He forces his hips to stop gently moving. "Human reproduction requires the mess, and our bodies are fairly faithful if we go all in." He gives a shrug, there are a lot of things Crawly will get used to. And a lot of them he won't be particularly happy about.

Crawly rests against him for half a minute, fingers idly drifting on the back of Crowley's neck.

"You haven't made a mess yet," he finally says quietly, then seems to remember what he's learned so far. "Are you going to, while you're inside me?" He looks like he's considering the idea, and it seems to appeal to him, because he rolls his hips again, pushing down onto him, and Crowley has to hiss and wrap hands around his narrow hip bones, the thudding eagerness of his cock still testy about having been made to stop. "That's obscene that is, you should make it happen. I don't mind."

Crowley can't help the huff of laughter, the way his fingers squeeze on Crawly's skin.

"I can't exactly - not on command - well, I mean I could, but it's significantly less fun that way."

Crawly shuts him up with a more aggressive roll of his hips, and a clumsy press of mouth. Crowley gets the message, he's a stubborn, demanding demon, and six thousand years haven't changed that. He grips Crawly's thighs and makes him stop squirming impatiently.

"Alright, wings away then, unless you want to lay on them," he tells him. Because he knows how uncomfortable that can be, and he can't imagine it getting any better when someone's fucking into your arse. Crawly obediently complies and Crowley tumbles him back into the grass, legs splaying open beautifully and obscenely when he hits.

Crowley curves over him, hips already moving, one slick slide after another. He's looking for it this time, given permission to enjoy it, to drive deep into his own tight arse, which he's still not sure if he should be enjoying quite so much. Crawly is making shivery sounds of pleasure again, not over-stimulation but a willingness to go again, if Crowley wants to.

"Fuck - you really should rein that greediness in, it's going to get us both in trouble," Crowley tells him, though he's not complaining. It's almost too easy to push one of Crawly's legs up and rut into him, to watch the stretched redness of his hole take him in delicious dragging thrusts. Until he ends up deep, buried all the way, the over-tight coil of lust in him unravelling as he stops moving and spills inside Crawly's clenching body. It feels amazing, and vaguely filthy, and he loves every second of it.

"Oh." Crawly's thighs shift round his waist, and then squeeze curiously, hard enough to make Crowley grab his leg and hiss, ride the shivery tremors to stillness.

But eventually, Crawly moves underneath him again, and Crowley knows he's feeling it inside, the strange new messiness of it.

"Did I feel good?" Crawly asks. He sounds curious and strangely uncertain all of a sudden, and Crowley finds his tongue oddly thick in his mouth. He forgets how different he was, how new he was, before he'd papered over all the cracks in him, all the places people could dig in and hurt him. Part of him wants to teach Crawly that he needs to do that too, because maybe earlier is better, maybe earlier would save him a lot of pain. But he doesn't. _He can't._

He leans down and kisses that relaxed curve of mouth instead, feels it smile underneath the pressure and kiss him back.

"So good, so very good," Crowley murmurs into his mouth, because his old self is making him honest almost against his will. "Did you like it, did you?" He fucking hopes so, that's kind of the point here after all. As distracting as this whole thing is for him too.

Crawly laughs, as if he'd asked the stupidest question in the world so far.

"Yessssss. It felt very, very good."

Crowley pulls out slowly, can't resist dragging a thumb across that pink, puffy hole that's slowly leaking come. Crawly gives another shiver and draws a thigh up again, as if to encourage Crowley to put things back inside him. Which makes him breathe disbelieving laughter, though he can't pretend he's not sorely fucking tempted. Honestly, he's seriously reconsidering the wisdom of giving himself a sex drive two thousand years ahead of schedule.

Crawly whines out a satisfied breath, before curling a hand round Crowley's arm.

"I want to try it with the other one. Can we do that too?"

Which - not exactly a surprise considering his reckless tendency to want to throw himself into new things, from the very beginning. But it still startles another laugh out of him.

"Of course you do, always been too curious for your own good haven't you?"

Crawly goes very still, teeth tightening behind the skin of his cheek, and Crowley realises that's a wound that's a touch too fresh for him to prod so carelessly.

"Right, no, ignore me, you know how we can be, s'been a while since that smarted for me. I forgot for a second. Come on, we'll do what you want, switch over."

Crawly huffs something, but he forgives him surprisingly easily, Crowley doesn't remember ever being so willing to forgive, especially not when the place jabbed was so raw - never for anyone but Aziraphale. But maybe because they both know the truth it's easier, because he knows they've both been to that place. They've both escaped that place for the first time, in different ways, with all its hate, and its misery, and its despair.

And now it's just the two of them, in a garden, under an apple tree. Crawly has dropped a hand, smoothing it over himself, to feel what he's doing, to curve his body inwards, Crowley still does that sometimes when he makes a cunt. And it's a good job they don't have to work with human limitations, because the idea of Crawly wanting to be shown more, wanting to be shown everything - well he's both ready and willing. 

He's too tempted not to touch it when Crawly's finished, since he's clearly offering it for Crowley's approval and/or pleasure. The angle is strange and different, not to mention the view, but it's still familiar when he spreads the warm labia and admires it.

"That's it, lovely thing that is, and look how wet you are already. You are enjoying this."

Crawly's throat reddens beautifully and Crowley has to wonder if he can debauch himself well enough to break him of the habit completely. He slides two fingers through the slick, drawing them up high enough to rub gently at Crawly's clitoris. Which gets him a punch of air and a gasping moan, sharp nails in his arm, not pushing at him but drawing him closer.

"Yeah, s'different like this, isn't it? Do you want me to eat you out?" Crowley asks him.

Crawly's eyebrows go up, then twitch back down in confusion. Right, colloquialisms not really a thing yet are they.

"Do you want me to use my mouth to make you feel good."

Crawly's eyes go wide, and then he's nodding, hissing gently through his barely open mouth.

"Right, back in the grass then, legs open."

This time Crawly hurries to comply, bare leg sliding against Crowley's shoulder when he hikes it up. He does wonder, briefly, if he's going to ruin himself with this. Because he's had considerably more practice than the average human. But then he makes the mistake of looking down, at the inviting wet flush of Crawly's cunt, spread open for his pleasure. For both their pleasure. Satan for _everyone's_ pleasure, and he's already falling forward, sliding his tongue the full length of it, to spread it wider, reveal everything from the tempting slickness of his hole to the eager, pink jut of his clit. Crawly gives a shocked moan, thighs clenching and then falling open wider

Crowley's pretty much lost from that point, and he no longer cares that it's effectively the taste of himself, the warmth of his own arousal on his tongue. Not when Crawly squirms under him, pushing up every time he finds a spot that feels good, grinding against the perfectly amenable stretch of Crowley's mouth and jaw. He has to get his tongue into him, one wet push that makes Crawly's thighs jolt. Then he's forced to repeat the move over and over, before sliding back up to tongue his clit, and he finds out that Crawly is far more sensitive than him. Not used to being touched, not used to being pleasured.

There are sharp fingers in his hair and a long leg curled over his back, heel digging into his spine when he shoves his tongue back inside Crawly, shifting between human and not, in a way that's messy and unpredictable, as many times as it takes to have his younger self gasping. Before he's sliding out and focusing his attention on the sensitive nub of his clit again. He sucks on it, in quick, rhythmic pulls, then rolls it under his tongue over and over, until Crawly gives a wailing moan and tightens his fingers in Crowley's hair, shoving the slick wetness of his cunt against Crowley's mouth, while he shakes himself apart, toes clenching in the grass. Until he's just rubbing against him, slowly, helplessly, while he comes down.

Crowley would feel smug about it, but he's in some sort of feedback loop, remembering how that feels, how nice it is to just grind his almost over-sensitive clit against a shifting tongue, with fingers pushed all the way inside him, curled just right so the stretch feels like an ache. He can feel himself moaning into Crawly's wet, clenching heat and it's almost the phantom echo of an orgasm, dizzying and sweet. So good, so fucking good he almost comes himself.

Crowley slides away when Crawly gives a surprised hiss of complaint, then rubs his wet mouth on the inside of Crawly's pale thigh, before stretching shakily upright, cock still hard enough to feel it like an ache, a heavy weight of impatient, greedy lust. Crawly is currently not helping with that, spread beneath him on the grass, almost his mirror image in notes of shivery pleasure, watching him through gold, starburst eyes, utterly naked, chest shifting on every breath, nipples red and faintly bruised, legs splayed unselfconsciously wide to expose every surprisingly lovely inch of him.

Crowley's seriously considering jerking himself off on the wet, sensitive redness of Crawly's cunt, he almost certainly wouldn't mind

But Crawly surprises him by shakily pulling himself to a sit, then turning his body over. He gets his knees under him, hands fisted in the grass. His parted thighs and the pointed tilt of the hips make it obvious what he wants, or what he knows Crowley wants from him, because this thing, it seems, is starting to work both ways. And he suspects that both of them paid more attention to what Adam and Eve were doing than he'd thought, because that's a copied movement that is. 

"We are a greedy, thing aren't we?" Crowley says breathlessly, and he means it exactly like that. He slides a hand up Crawly's smooth, narrow back, catches a shoulder and holds him in position. "I've created a fucking monster," he decides. But he wraps a hand round his aching dick, and positions it where Crawly is slick and hot, and so very ready for him. Before he's pushing inside, feeling the stretching slick grasp of him, that's deliciously new and still strangely familiar. Crawly makes a surprised sound when he sinks in all the way, and tightens around him, exhales a breath that's all moan - which breaks when Crowley draws out completely and then fills him again. 

"Fuck you feel good." Crowley can't hold the sharp, greedy hiss his throat makes, hands back on Crawly's waist, pulling him into every shove of his hips. Until Crawly is pushing back into him, meeting every thrust with a shaken exhale.

Crowley likes the way his slender body jolts under every thrust, the way his spine rolls and curves, body tightening in wet little squeezes, every time he drives in. And he can't help the murmur of appreciation - of genuine coiling lust - when Crawly sinks on a particularly hard shove, until his head is resting on his own folded arms, gasping at every wet smack of their hips. His hair is a tumble of rusty curls, the back of his neck long and vulnerable, and Crowley honestly can't decide exactly how narcissistic his appreciation is. All he knows is that he's too aroused to currently feel guilty for it. The slick, clenching heat of Crawly's body opening to him again and again, the choked little noises he makes into his own arm.

It's perfect and Crowley's never going to get to do this again. Never. This is a singular, unique and fucking perfect experience, for just the two of them.

He slides a hand down, finds Crawly's clit, still hot and sensitive, and rolls it in quick, hard movements. Crawly gives a long strangled gasp and tries his best to rock into it while Crowley fucks him, squirming into the pressure, whining desperately, and he's already clenching and sobbing when Crowley shoves in deep and comes for the second time inside him.

They slowly slide down to the grass together, separating wetly, in a messy spill. Before letting their corporations breathe and shake for a moment, since they've both earned it. Crawly rolls slowly, lazily, and curls into him, fingers touching Crowley's chest and stomach, and then drifting down to the soft, damp length of his cock. Before he stretches up for a kiss, and Crowley lets him indulge himself. He deserves it.

"How do you feel?" Crowley eventually asks his younger self, when he's almost entirely still.

"Sore," Crawly admits, voice quiet and sleepy. "Which is strange and pleasant. And also sticky and wet, which isn't so pleasant."

"You can miracle that away," Crowley tells him, amused at the scrunch of mouth. "I won't be offended."

Crawly does, then rests his body against Crowley's again, he's slightly cooler than his younger self. He wonders if that's through spending so much time on earth. He remembers feeling cold more in the last few centuries. Or maybe that's just climate change.

"I enjoyed that a lot, I didn't know bodies had so many sensations, should I say thank you?"

"Best not," Crowley says, without thinking, and then can't help but laugh.

Crowley's pretty sure he falls asleep for a little while, because the next thing he knows Crawly is pushing curious fingers through the feathers of his wings. He's doing it carefully, as if he suspects Crowley is going to object - but to be honest, it's more familiar than it is unnerving. Crawly touches him like he touches himself, the slow, efficient card and comb, fingertips flat, thumb dragging an edge straight here and there.

He doesn't even know when his wings came out. Perhaps he's feeling nostalgic too, something about him that remembers this place feeling safe. It's strangely intimate, now he's concentrating on it. The slow drift of Crawly's careful fingers, unattached to his own body, somehow familiar, but also not.

"You don't bring them out much, do you?" Crawly says quietly. But that's not the only question in his eyes. He's always been too clever for his own good.

He drops his hand when Crowley's wing folds, and it occurs to him that they're both still lying in the grass together, legs tangled, chests touching, one of his hands still on the naked curve of Crawly's hip. There's a weird indulgence to it, considering they're the same person, even separated by almost six thousand years of time. It doesn't feel wrong, exactly, just oddly unexpected, as if the universe missed a step on the stairs, and was readjusting. It's not a bad feeling, just very, very unique.

Crowley lifts a hand and tucks a long curl behind Crawly's ear, before he can stop himself. It's more affectionate than he intends, _more_ in general than he intends. But Crawly makes a low noise of surprised pleasure, slides their ankles together and smiles at him. He's more fluid than Crowley, more comfortable with the impossible flexibility of himself. Closer to serpent than Crowley has been for a while.

Crowley makes himself look away.

"Lot of humans around when I come from, don't really get the chance is all." He finds a shiny apple from the tree that has rolled close enough to touch. He makes a noise of discovery and retrieves it, turns it over and over. Mostly for something else to look at.

Crawly has the quietness of someone who wants to ask a question, carefully considering them one by one, maybe for the possibility that Crowley will answer them, before casting them aside. Eventually he seems to decide what he wants to ask.

"Do you think the angel - Aziraphale - do you think he'd want to, with me. Do you think I should ask?"

Crowley stops turning the apple, a more complicated sort of emotion going through him. He knows damn well when he's angling for information, when he's trying to be subtle. When something is important to him, too important to ever admit to. How is he supposed to explain Aziraphale to someone who hasn't known him for six thousand years? Who hasn't loved every fussy, complicated, blessed inch of him. How does he explain everything he's done, willingly, happily, for the barest hint of friendship, of affection, of company? How does he admit to this wide-eyed, eager version of himself, who's all but in love already, that it will take six thousand years before Aziraphale will even hold his hand.

"I think you shouldn't go too fast for him," Crowley says at last. "He's worth the wait."


End file.
